


Pastel Drawstrings

by wickersnap



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, F/M, First Kiss, Fred Weasley Lives, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Non-Canon Relationship, yes it's overdone but it's a fun plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: Hermione smells many things in the amortentia Professor Slughorn presents. She smells her books and parchments, Harry's broom polish and Ron's jumpers when they've been out in the snow. Most overpoweringly, however, is everything un-nameable, unidentifiable, and quintessentially Fred Weasley that drifts up to her through the steam.“Granger, darling, if you’re reading this, please take pity on my poor brother and put him out of his misery one way or another. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley, background Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 27
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, amortentia is overdone, but a) I haven't had a go with it yet, and b) it's fun.  
> c) It's also very useful.  
> I hope you enjoy!

She’s first confronted with it the day they make draught of living death. 

Hermione steps up to each of the presented flagons and cauldrons and gives her conclusion until the last, which Slughorn opens with a smug smile. She takes a breath and startles when she’s swept up in the sweetest scent of apricot jam and pastry. Looking inside the cauldron it’s obvious, but she still flicks her eyes to Slughorn in a sort of ‘Really?’ look. He looks on encouragingly, and she steadies herself.

“Amortentia,” she says. The jam becomes lemon sherbet as she speaks. “It’s the strongest love potion in the world... Its characteristics are its mother-of-pearl sheen, steam that rises in spirals, and that it smells different to each of us according to what attracts us. For instance, I smell freshly mown grass… new parchment… and… uh—yes.” She ducks her head and takes a step back. _Fred Weasley,_ her heart screams. It’s _Fred Weasley._

After that it’s months before they see the potion again, but none of them forget it in a hurry. Slughorn takes them through all of the others first, learning the theory, the history and the practicalities of each. It’s fascinating, truly, but even Hermione can’t help but let her thoughts be drawn back to the amortentia over and over again. It’s natural, she supposes, for something that smells like love and desire to have such an effect. Harry had looked at her thoughtfully after she’d seen it, his lips twitching at the corners. Ron hadn’t been very interested.

“Today,” Professor Slughorn announces, levitating a small cauldron onto the front desk, “we shall be conducting our own little experiment.”

A small murmur ripples through the class as steam spirals up from its rim. Lavender’s hair bounces excitedly several seats away, and her giggling is just as shrill as it’s always been.

“As you may well remember, last half-term I told you that amortentia is one of the most dangerous potions in the world. You may also be interested to know that it is one of the least understood, due to its changing nature from individual to individual. I propose, today, that we do our own little research projects—no consumption, of course, only observation.”

Several of the girls on their side of the room giggle obnoxiously. Hermione feels her lip curl as she looks at them, but quickly returns her attention to Slughorn.

“I shall give you each a small sample for your experiments,” he continues. “I will be checking that it all makes it back to me, mind, so no clever tricks. Each of you is to record as many things as you can notice about this potion, regardless of what you already know. Approach it like a stranger, document it, and then compare amongst your friends. I’ll give you half an hour to do so, so hop-to, all of you!”

With a wave of his wand, a few dozen tiny glass dishes swoop down from the store cupboard and line themselves up on the desk. Slughorn uses his stirring rod to deposit three drops on each dish, and then distributes them along each desk. Hermione pulls out her notebook eagerly and gets started putting quill to paper.

 _Amortentia,_ she writes along the title.

_Volume: three drops_

_Container: glass_

_Brewer:_

“Sir,” she says, “did you brew this yourself?”

Slughorn turns to her looking a little surprised. “Why yes, my dear. Is there something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” she says quickly. “I was just wondering if there would be a difference in the potion between brewers.”

“Very good!” he tells her. “Now that is the true spirit! We may have to see, Miss Granger, we may have to see.”

She smiles and turns back to her notebook.

_Brewer: Professor H. Slughorn_

_Appearance: milky, white to pale pink, opaque pearly sheen_

_Consistency: thin to lower-medium viscosity; drips easily from stirring rod, flows quickly to take the shape of the container; comparable to some cake batters_

_Audible effects: light bubbling when over heat_

“I wonder what it tastes like,” Ron says, a little too loudly at her side.

“No consumption, Weasley,” Slughorn reminds him. Ron rolls his eyes and grumbles something about ears and not having them. Hermione glances at Harry, who glances back, grinning.

“Anything interesting?” he asks.

She smiles. “Not yet. Is yours what you expected?”

“I’m trying to do as you said, ’Mione, and get the boring bits out of the way first. Don’t tempt me.”

“Good,” she says, and returns to her notes. She watches the few swirling drops in the dish for a moment before reaching out, tentatively, and dabbing her finger into one. It picks easily up onto her skin and hangs there, warm and smooth. She rubs it back against the glass to test it before she scrapes it off her skin.

_Texture: moderately oily, soft; resistant to absorption through skin_

_Smell:_

Hermione hesitates. Sweet, fresh scents have been wafting through the room since Slughorn had lifted the lid on the cauldron. She’s been doing her best to ignore them, remembering the shock of adrenaline she’d felt back in September when he’d first introduced them to it. She glances again to Harry and Ron, who are busy sniffing away at their dishes and grinning like loons. 

_Jam tarts,_ she writes down first. _Lemon sherbet, cut grass, new parchment._

She lifts the dish gently in her palm and sniffs. A rush of everything fills her sinuses, stinging the backs of her eyes and making her blood burn in the tips of her ears. Apricot jam, fizzing whizzbees, sugar quills and mint imperials—all the things she’d never tell her parents she’s been eating. She smells spring on the quidditch pitch, the Gryffindor uniform leather and Harry’s broom polish. She smells the grass after the rain and a warm evening’s bonfire smoke—

“Hermione? Are you all right?”

She looks up quickly, inhaling a new draft of sweets-tainted air as she does. Harry is peering at her from across the desk, half concerned and half amused.

“Fine,” she says, and she can see the beginnings of his smirk rising. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Bonfire smoke, stone castle walls, the common room on a wet weekend afternoon. New parchment, pine trees, butterbeer, damp woolen jumpers and the smell of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Shall we compare?” Harry asks, sidling around the table with false nonchalance.

Hermione scribbles down a number of things and takes a few steadying breaths. She places a clean sheet of parchment over the page and runs her wand over it, the words inscribing themselves after it as if seeping up through the paper.

“You’ve looked at each aspect except for taste, yes?” she asks, sliding her parchment up beside his.

“Yeah… Mine was more of a pale yellow-y colour,” he mumbles, running a finger beneath her words and frowning where some of the letters have become less legible.

“Mine was blue,” Ron says, leaning over them both. “And it was really runny.”

Hermione sighs. “Did it start smoking at any point?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Then you dripped water in it, Ron. Go and ask for a new sample.”

Ron clicks his tongue and meanders off, muttering to himself. Harry laughs quietly and scratches out a few words under the subtitle _Hermione._ Hermione herself turns a page in her notebook and begins to write down the inconsistencies, including a number of smells Harry’s identified. She sees his ‘ _broom sheds and greenhouses’_ and can’t help but snicker. It makes sense if that’s what he’d been up to while he’d disappeared off so frequently last year.

“Ours are a little similar, aren’t they?” he says quietly, smiling. “Quidditch leather, here, and the bonfire smoke. I mean, I think I’d have plenty of quidditch smells anyway, but I didn’t take you as a fan. Change of heart?”

Hermione swallows and flips back a page to stare at her short list. “Not so as you’d notice. They’re just smells I like.”

“Ah, yeah,” he says, but leans across with his quill. He scratches a short question on her notebook and she gasps, writing a quick, fierce, _No!_ underneath before scribbling the whole lot out.

“Harry!” she hisses. “That’s not funny!”

“But it sounds like it,” he says. “And it’s not like I’m completely _blind,_ either.”

“It’s nothing, all right?” she snaps. _George Weasley,_ she adds under her notes on Harry’s potion just to be petty. He glares at her and crosses it out thickly.

“What’s that?” Ron asks, returning with his new sample. He leans over the table and frowns at their upside-down parchment. “Those look like initials—”

“It’s nothing, Ron,” she says quickly, closing the notebook. “Harry thinks he’s _funny.”_

“I am funny,” Harry replies, smirking to himself.

“Yeah, that go you had at Snape was brilliant.”

Hermione throws out her best disparaging look. “Are you ever going to forget that?”

Ron raises his palms in surrender. “Well, it was!”

“It was, but that doesn’t mean he should have said it. Anyway, are you going to get on with your potion?”

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters, and tears off a new piece of parchment.

Harry elbows her in the side. “You sure it isn’t him?” he whispers.

“Harry, please! I don’t want to think about it.”

“You should say something.” She looks at him blankly. “You know,” he shrugs, “tell him.”

_“What?”_

“I’m just saying!” he says, “I’m just saying, he might surprise you. You never know.”

“No,” she says, “and neither do you. So no thank you.”

Snatching up her parchment she stalks away to try asking Parvati for a comparison. She can feel Harry watching her all the way over, and smiles to herself when something behind her thuds onto the floor and he swears.

\- x -

“Here, ’Mione,” Harry says at breakfast, holding out a page of a letter he’s reading.

“Good morning to you too,” she mutters, but takes the paper and sits down beside him. A small tawny owl hops up to her with a letter from her mother, which she swaps for a torn edge of bacon. She looks down at Harry’s letter first, smiling when she recognises George’s writing.

 _Sadly, neither of us thought to keep it to ourselves back then,_ he’s saying, _because we were both too interested in figuring out whose ours could be about. It was a bit embarrassing when mine came up with loads of quidditch stuff (which was probably a forewarning, now that I think about it) and all sorts of tiny giveaways like your soap from the changing rooms—Fred and Lee wouldn’t stop teasing me about it for months. It’s changed a bit since, like it does, and now it’s all sorts of foods and places and whathaveyou that remind me of home and, of course, you. (There are still plenty of quidditch undertones, though). Fred says what he can remember of his is parchment, pinecones, the pitch grass, Mum’s lemonade floats_ _~~and that perfume Ron got Hermione in fifth year~~. _ _He just asked me why I asked and told me to cross that bit out. I’m sure your speccy arse won’t be able to read it so I suggest you give it to Granger instead. Granger, darling, if you’re reading this, please take pity on my poor brother and put him out of his misery one way or another. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll do fine._

_Anyway, do let us, the neighbourhood gossips, know your results! If any interesting revelations pop up I’m definitely all ears, wink wink. I wonder if Ron’s has anything other than food. I’m sure I get star feature in yours because you love me so much. Speaking of, I hope you’re not too down without us around to brighten up the school. Your wailing might disturb Moaning Myrtle, and none of us would want that…_

Hermione stops reading and hands the paper back to Harry. He grins at her and winks when she scowls. She chews on her lip and busies herself buttering more toast than she can eat. 

George thinks Fred likes her, that much is clear. She’s just not sure what she’s supposed to do with it.

Without warning, Harry disappears under the table. He yelps when he hits his head, but eventually reemerges with a newly-torn sheet of parchment. He grabs a quill and starts writing back to George immediately, smiling away to himself with that carefree, besotted expression of his. She quite likes him this way, so she’s grudgingly beginning to forgive George’s stealing him away for hours at a time. She leans over Harry’s shoulder while she chews on her toast.

 _Dear George,_ he’s written.

_We’ve been all right, thanks! Slughorn’s been a bit weird about me though, honestly. He seems kind of obsessed with me following in my mum’s footsteps, but talking about my parents seems to be par for the course around these parts. Hermione keeps glaring at me for using that potions book, but I’ve actually tried to learn things from it, as you said, and now I might actually be able to make the things I used to cock up (without the book’s notes, I mean)._

_You’re right, my amortentia gave you front and centre stage. Hermione tried to rib me about it, but the thing about going out with the guy you like is that it becomes less embarrassing when other people call you out on it. She’s reading over my shoulder right now, so yes that was a pointed jab at her; I like you just as much as always, regardless of embarrassment. The amortentia was full of quidditch and Burrow-related things for me as well, and I think it might even have featured that one room we found in Grimmauld Place full of all those clocks. Great for being on a tight schedule, which we were, weren’t we?_

_As for interesting results, Miss Hermione Granger seems to have turned into a new quidditch fan overnight. ‘Quidditch leathers and cut grass’ were definitely written on there, as well as a bunch of dentist-hating sweets and that bonfire smell you two seem to carry around… How curious. I’m sure you agree, but I can only come to a limited number of conclusions with that, and I’m sure there’s more she isn’t telling us. I propose we make a plan, but you might have to help me if we want something better than ‘broom cupboard’ and ‘locked door’._

_And, well, we don’t really know about Ron because he’s too busy off with ‘Lav’ these days. It’s gotten to the point where Hermione’s started speaking in thinly-veiled code—“Ron’s gone to use the lavatory,” and such, when he comes stumbling in moments later with his face still attached to his girlfriend’s._

_I ask you: were we ever that bad? No, we weren’t (before you say otherwise). So then, why should we have to be subjected to this? It’s becoming unbearable for everyone, really. It’s not like we’re not happy for him, but… It_ _is_ _really bloody annoying. I basically only see him for quidditch practise and in the dorm, because all other times he’s just full of it._

_Ginny’s doing brilliantly, by the way. She’s our new Chaser, and last weekend…_

Hermione reaches into her own bag for her quill and ink, and just about manages to scribble _George, don’t listen to any of it, he’s lying!_ down the edge of his letter before Harry bats her away. He grins and leaves it anyway, ignoring her to continue rambling on about quidditch. 

Honestly, she doesn’t even know what she’s expecting anymore.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Just don’t be late for Herbology.”

“I won’t,” he promises, terribly unconvincingly.

\- x -

“So, all in all,” says Fred, “not one of Ron’s better birthdays?” 

Hermione looks up at the sound, surprised by their arrival. The hospital wing is quiet, save for Madam Pomfrey clinking away in her office, and they’d only been let in ten minutes ago. Ron’s is the only occupied bed.

“Not quite how we imagined handing him his present,” George sighs, placing a large wrapped box on the bedside table. “We’d hoped he’d be conscious.”

“We were in Hogsmeade, see, thinking we’d—”

“You were in Hogsmeade?” Ginny asks.

“Yeah, we were looking into buying Zonko’s…” Fred pulls up a chair between Ginny and Hermione and sits down heavily. Harry explains the whole debacle over again, and they gaze on listlessly over Ron while he sleeps.

“You don’t think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake?” Fred says. “That it was meant for you?”

“No,” Hermione says. Her voice cracks with disuse. “That’s horrible. I don’t believe he wanted to poison either of them!”

“He was half asleep, I suppose,” Harry says. “Said the mead was meant for Dumbledore…”

Hermione frowns. “You didn’t see him break the seal, did you?”

“I think so, but couldn’t it just have easily been fixed if it had already been opened?”

“I suppose…”

“Hey,” George says quietly, nudging Harry with his elbow. Hermione can see their hands clasped below the seats of their chairs. “You’re all okay, aren’t you?”

“You are looking awfully worried,” Fred says. “It’s not about Ron, is it? They have healed him?”

“Yes,” Ginny says with a weak smile. “He’s going to be fine… It’s just…”

Fred hugs her to his side. “Yeah.”

Hermione stands suddenly enough that her chair jumps backwards out of her way.

“Ugh!” she says. “I hate this! I wish we could just—solve it already!”

“Hey, Hermione—”

“Katie’s in St Mungo’s and Ron’s here, unconscious! None of this is right! I’m even starting to think Harry might be onto something!”

“Surely not,” Fred chuckles. He reaches out and takes her hand gently. She flinches, at first, but lets him. In the chill of the infirmary, his warmth is like a lighthouse in an endless sea.

“The best thing to do is to _not get involved,”_ George says, slowly as if it’s of utmost importance.

Fred nods and squeezes her hand. “The last thing we want is you rushing in and getting hurt too.”

“No more mirrors around corners, Hermione,” Harry says, smiling wryly, and a laugh bubbles up through her chest with the surprise of the memory. The naivety and overconfidence. The months that disappeared in a literal blink.

“I’m surprised Lavender isn’t up here already,” George says when Hermione sits back down.

“Oh,” she says, “didn’t you hear? They broke up.”

“Ah, well, it was only a matter of time,” he sighs. “Knew he’d come to his senses soon.”

Ginny snorts. “I thought you were saying she was the one who’d lost it?”

“I’ve heard stories. Not a big fan of girls myself, anyway. Find them much too high maintenance.”

“Watch who you’re talking to,” Hermione says, though they’re all smiling.

“We might just take it up a notch,” Ginny agrees.

“I, for one, do not share the egregious views of my brother,” Fred says. “I think girls are pretty all right, myself.”

“Oh, and you’re going to get so many like that,” Ginny cackles.

He gapes at her, comically affronted. “Hey! Who took _Angelina Johnson_ to the Yule Ball?”

“And I went with Neville and Hermione went with Krum—I think she got the rubbish deal.”

“Reckon it was me she fancied, anyway,” George says.

“Not with your charming opinions, she didn’t,” Hermione laughs.

“You’ve got to know the trick, see,” Harry says, patting George’s arm. “Keep his mind and mouth on other things, and you won’t have to hear any of the thoughts.”

_“Harry!”_

“Oh Merlin.”

“Do we know if that works on Fred? Maybe we’ll finally get some peace and quiet.”

“I hope you’re not volunteering, Gin.”

“Don’t be disgusting! I’m not the only girl in the room.”

“Hey!” Hermione protests, finding all eyes (bar Ron’s, of course) suddenly on her. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Sorry, ’Mione,” Harry says gleefully. “I think you’re the sacrifice.”

 _“Wass g’n on?”_ comes a sleepy mumble from the bed. Everyone takes a breath and peers down at Ron, who hasn’t opened his eyes, but is frowning.

“We’re talking about Hermione kissing Fred,” Ginny tells him, without preamble. Hermione squeaks.

“Oh,” Ron says, “’s ’bout time…” 

They stare down at him, a little open-mouthed, but the only thing forthcoming is a loud snore. It’s like a switch is flicked when the five of them burst out laughing, much to the displeasure of Madam Pomfrey, but even she doesn’t hush them too forcibly.

\- x -

Hermione leaves Hogwarts that year for what she thinks might be the last ever time. Everything is different, has been since she said it aloud in fourth year, but when she takes her parents’ memories and they look at her blankly, like a stranger, she truly knows how it is to feel alone in the world. She keeps her head down and her hood up as she walks quickly down the road, away from her parents’ house. Everything is grey and gritty with recent rain. Her head is pounding.

When she holds out her wand, the Knight Bus comes screaming to a halt as usual. Shunpike is gone. She drops seven sickles in the chute and takes a ticket and sits at the very back, in half a shadow. One stop and they’re in London, two stops and they’re in Aberystwyth. Three stops and they’re in the Lake District, and the fourth stop is hers.

She steps down from the bus floor into the fields just outside Ottery-St-Catchpole. Her boots crunch, slightly, on the gravel of the roadside after the bus leaves, and she heads in the direction of the Burrow. It’s ten minutes, twenty, half an hour gone before it comes into view. She quickens her pace, even breaks into a run when she sees Ron standing outside. He’s gazing out at the sunset with a horrible tension in his shoulders, and he barely has time to turn around and say, _“Hermione?”_ before she’s colliding with him with her arms wide open. He hugs her to his chest, bemused and concerned and a warm, warm pillar of hope.

“Why didn’t you owl?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, still teary-eyed. “I didn’t know if it would—”

“No, you’re right. Come in, you know Mum’ll never mind having you around.”

They go in and have tea, and Mrs Weasley wraps her up in another hug so tight she’s worried her ribs might crack.

She jumps then, when there are two loud cracks just behind her. They all turn to the back door to see Fred and George return home. Her hands run absently over her chest, just making sure.

“Hi Mum,” George says, nicking a scone off the plate on the counter. “Busy day today—all the new defence stuff seems to be a great hit.”

“Stuff flying off the shelves—quite literally,” Fred agrees.

“Oh good,” Mrs Weasley says. “I’m glad you’re home. Hermione’s just arrived, too.”

“Hermione?” Fred asks, looking up and meeting her eyes immediately. She smiles and tries not to blush, setting her mug down and giving them a wave.

“Hello,” she says. “Long time no see.”

“It’s not been that long,” Ron mutters, even though everyone knows it.

“Well it’ll be good to have some company,” George says, smiling to her before he wanders off into the house and his voice grows fainter. “No use moping about on our own now, is it?”

“Did someone say Hermione?” Ginny calls down.

“She’s down here!” Ron replies.

“Oh, good. Down in a minute!”

“So,” says Fred, pulling out a chair and sitting on it backwards. “I don’t think I’ll ask about your holidays this year, but I _will_ ask if you’ve had a think on our offer.”

“To work with you?” she asks, picking up her mug again for something to hide behind. “I told you, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Ron snorts. “Intrude? They could employ half of Hogwarts and it would still be a party.”

She gives him a look. “That’s not what I mean…”

“We could use your brains, Granger,” Fred reminds her. “Brilliant set of neurons up there. And don’t look at me like that—I do know some things!”

Hermione laughs. “Here I was, beginning to think that science was a muggle thing.”

“Definitely not,” Ron says. “But not my best topic.”

Fred leans back and pulls something very dramatically from his coat pocket. “These here we made as a trial run for the wedding,” he says, placing the box on the table and pushing it towards them. “Genius, I’d say. I think it was Harry’s letters to George that gave us the idea.”

Hermione peers down at the little red box. It’s square, made of card, and has a picture of a beautiful forest, just like a—

“Are these chocolates?” Ron asks, prodding the lid. “What have you done to them?”

“Nothing!” Fred says. He lifts the lid and moves aside the tissue paper. “They’re for the wedding, as I said. Go on, Granger, have a sniff. Tell us what you get.”

Hermione frowns at him but leans forward, gently inhaling the smell of the box.

“What am I supposed to be smelling?” she asks.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

She gives him a look. “I don’t know either. Chocolate? The shop? Hold on, these aren’t mint-flavoured, are they? Wait, did you just invent smoked chocolate—” She stops as she gets a proper smell of what’s in there.

Fred is grinning. “No, I’m sure that’s already a thing.”

“Ron, don’t eat that,” she says as Ron lifts one to his mouth. He freezes.

“What? He said they’re trying them for the wedding?”

“They’re full of amortentia.”

 _“What?”_ Ron demands. He drops it like poison and Fred guffaws loudly, drawing George back downstairs in curiosity.

“Well done!” he says, still grinning. “She got it in one!”

“This is illegal,” Hermione presses, shoving the box back towards them.

“Haven’t you told her?” George asks. 

“Hold your horses, we’ve only just got this far!” They both turn back to the box and take a chocolate each, popping them into their mouths easily. She blinks.

“See,” says George, throwing his arms wide. “No love potions present. It’s just a little trick of ours; get all the benefits and no drawbacks. Amortentia-flavoured chocolates: guaranteed to make your mouth water.”

“Getting this far took us _ages,”_ Fred adds. “Which, I should say, is why we asked if you would come on board. I bet you’d love this sort of thing, not to mention you’re dead good at it in the first place.”

Hermione looks from Weasley to Weasley, unsure of what to do with herself. She looks back down at the box and reaches out impulsively, taking a chocolate and biting into it before her brain kicks back into gear. 

It really is a mouthwatering explosion of flavour. _Half of the taste is in the smell,_ her mother used to tell her, and now she can feel the tears welling up behind her eyes again as flashes of raspberries and frozen yoghurt pass her tongue. It’s the jam tarts, it’s the mint imperials, it’s even the pine and the mown grass. It’s a cacophony of things wrapped up in chocolate and none of them should ever work but somehow they _do,_ and it’s incredible.

“Hermione?” Fred asks loudly, snapping her back to herself. Both he and George have leapt out of their chairs, and Ron is gripping her shoulders and shaking her gently.

“Hermione, my dear, would you like any biscuits—” Mrs Weasley says, clattering back into the kitchen. She freezes in the doorway at the sight of them.

“Oh god,” Hermione whispers, feeling the sear of fresh tears sliding down her nose and swiping at them with her fingers. “I’m sorry, I—”

 _“What_ have you done to her!” Mrs Weasley shrieks. “I thought you were better than this, you two!”

“It wasn’t them, Mrs Weasley, I promise,” Hermione says, shaking off Ron’s arms and pushing away from the table. It’s hard to see through the bleariness. “It was me—a memory—I’m sorry, I—”

She backs away from them all and fumbles for the back door, wrenching it open and dashing out into the garden. She makes it all the way down to the little bench under the apple tree before she bursts into sobs, throwing herself down on the bench and keeling forward in an effort to breathe. Her chest hurts, her heart hurts, and the throbbing in her head is fighting to make its return. It takes many deep breaths to regain control of her breathing but she manages, with great gasps of air and the burning of wet cheeks.

To her surprise, she still has half a chocolate melting between the fingers of her right hand. She puts it in her mouth and licks the mess off her hands, and somehow the second bite lulls her back into a peaceful absence of emotion. She barely even notices the body that sits beside her until he’s pressed against her arm, radiating stability and kindness like a small sun.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She sniffs and wipes again at her eyes.

“Crying’s nothing to apologise for,” Fred tells her. “Unless it’s because you’ve done something bad, which I highly doubt could ever happen. At least not on purpose.”

She chuckles quietly. He doesn’t say anything else, just sits with her as they watch the sun finally slip below the hedgerows. It’s a quiet choir of birdsong and whispering leaves and the air is pleasantly cool on her skin. Her tear tracks stick and become something solid on her face.

“You’re incredible,” she says, even though she hadn’t meant to. “Those sweets…” She takes another breath. “It was remembering something my mum said that set me off. I’ve sent my parents away to keep them safe. I’m not Granger anymore, just Hermione.”

“Well, Hermione,” he says softly, “I want to apologise for making you cry anyway, but could you repeat that bit about being incredible? I’m not sure I heard correctly.”

“You’re incredible,” she says, smiling. “You both are, and so are your products. I don’t know how you do it.”

He huffs a laugh and crosses one of his legs over the other. “Sometimes, neither do I.”

There’s a long moment of quiet between them, where the clouds are flaring bright pink and gold and lilac and blue. The lights are flickering on one by one in the windows of the Burrow behind them, but neither are turned to see it.

“What do you smell in them?” she asks suddenly. 

She looks up at him and waits. Lets him blink his golden eyelashes, take a breath, a second, before he looks back.

“You.”

Quiet are the mischief and humour ever-present in his eyes. He smiles down at her, somewhere between sad and proud, and is utterly sincere.

“Thank god,” she whispers, exhaling shakily. She fumbles for his hand and he meets her halfway, tangling their fingers together between them like a promise. He holds her gaze, searching her eyes for long, drifting seconds before his other hand comes up to smooth gently across her cheek.

“May I?” he asks, brushing his thumb just under her lip. She smiles, closes her eyes, and leans in.

In the inch between their faces their breaths tumble and unfurl as one across their cheeks, and then Fred is kissing her.

His lips are shockingly soft and warm, and pressing as gently as though he thinks she might bolt. She wraps her fingers around the lapel of his coat and pulls him forward, pressing back and giving as good as she wants to get. He doesn’t disappoint, wetting her lips with his tongue and sparking shivers right down to the base of her spine. She opens her mouth under his, slowly, cautiously, and he allows her her exploration with a soft touch and a smile on his lips.

When Hermione starts smiling back they fall away from each other, laughing and clutching and giddy with delight. Fred’s voice reverberates right through her body and makes her feel a little more whole again, a little warmer in all the places that were cowering away from her hurt.

Behind them, a whole garden away, Ginny opens the back door and leans precariously out of it.

“Dinner’ll be ready in a minute!” she shouts. “Are you two coming or do you want to starve?”

“Coming!” the both of them reply, and then fall about in yet another fit of giggles. He holds her hand all the way back to the house and inside, and all three Ron, Ginny and George cheer when they notice.

“Mum’s going to have a fit,” Ron says.

“I’m what, dear?” Mrs Weasley says, hurrying past him to carry a small tower of plates over to the stove.

Ron makes a hilarious face and says, quickly, “Don’t worry, just a joke!”

“All right then. At least make yourselves useful and help me dish these out into bowls! Oh, Hermione dear, just take a seat. It’ll all be ready in a moment.”

Hermione insists on stealing the cutlery out of Ginny’s hands and setting the table anyway, because the both of them have been shooed away from the food on the premise of ‘too many people’. If Hermione sees a day where there are _too many people_ in Molly Weasley’s house, she might just hand in her wand and be done with it.

\- x -

There’s a moment, right before they leave Privet Drive, where Fred-as-Harry tugs her into the kitchen and away from everyone else. He hugs her and she clings back, the same height for once in her life, with murmured promises of anger if either doesn’t turn up alive flying between them.

\- x -

Hermione sprints through the barley after Kingsley. Remus meets them outside, wands out, and she watches with a racing heart and lungs that refuse to cooperate. There’s a flash beside them as they lower their guards and Bill and Fleur come galloping out of the darkness. Tonks and Ron land metres away and she runs to them, hugging Ron in celebration and sighing with some weak semblance of relief.

“I wouldn’t be standing here without him,” Tonks says, and Hermione grins against his shoulder. Harry runs to them both with a loud sob, almost knocking them over in his adrenaline-fuelled strength. 

A moment later Fred and Mr Weasley apparate in beside them. Hermione jerks back to see them collapse sideways into each other for support, stumbling the well-trodden path home. Fred takes off his false glasses and she runs to him, throwing her arms around his middle to the mild surprise of his father. He laughs quietly and holds her just as tightly in return.

“George,” she hears Harry croak behind them. Her heart freezes, and they turn to look at him in horror.

“Are we the last back?” Mr Weasley asks. They look to Lupin, who watches them speechlessly. “Where’s George?”

They’re moving before anyone can say a word. Mr Weasley and Fred rush to the door with Harry, Ron and Hermione close behind. It’s a short-lived but paralysing terror, quelled when they find Mrs Weasley hovering over George on the sofa, bloodied and weak, but ultimately, _thankfully,_ alive. Fred crouches in front of him as he stirs, pulling Harry down beside him.

“How’re you feeling Georgie?” he asks. Hermione swallows past the sharp object lodged in her throat.

“Saint-like,” George replies drowsily.

Fred hesitates. “Come again?”

“Saint-like,” he repeats. “I’m holy. I’m holey, Fred,” he says, waving vaguely to his missing ear. “Get it?”

“The whole wide world of ear-related humour, and you go for, _‘I’m holey’…_ That’s pathetic.” 

Everyone in the room feels the tension draining away with the tentative smiles on each of their faces. Fred shakes his head gently and bites his lip, and Harry hides whatever embarrassing expression he’s making in his hands.

“Reckon I’m still better lookin’ than you,” George says, and Hermione doesn’t miss the way he winks at Harry.

\- x -

“Good morning,” Fred says when he opens their bedroom door. “If you’re looking for Harry he dragged my brother downstairs ten minutes ago.”

He’s only mostly dressed, in his dress shirt, trousers and waistcoat, and with his necktie hanging loose from his upturned collar. She has the insane urge to fix it for him.

She smiles. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not, then.”

“Oh, Hermione,” he laughs, leaning against the doorframe. “If I didn’t know any better I would think you were flirting with me.”

“Good thing you do know better, then,” she says. “How long will you be?”

“Just a second.” He slips back into the room and returns with the rest of his dress robes. “What did you want with me?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she says, and tugs him down the stairs and into the empty living room. “Ginny, Fleur and your mother are busy and I didn’t want to intrude.”

“It seems mad, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, sliding his arms around her waist. “A wedding in the middle of all of this.”

Hermione smiles and presses her nose into his shoulder. “I think it’s brilliant. We… People need this.”

He hums. “You’re not going to tell me where you’re going after this, are you?”

Her arms tighten around him and she swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. Harry won’t tell George, either. Dumbledore’s orders, he says.”

“We weren’t to tell anyone,” she says. “He said only we can know.”

Fred sighs. “Mysterious man, Dumbledore. I know he’s sent you off doing something dangerous, by the way, but I’m not going to make you tell me. I just want you to promise you’ll come back, okay?”

“…Okay,” she manages, even though her throat constricts around it and her heart aches. Fred tilts her head, gently, to look at him. His eyes are bright with hundreds of thoughts and wishes and unspoken words. 

“And I do think you’re right. We need this.”

“When’s she ever wrong?” says Ron from the doorway. “Come on, now, hurry up. We’re putting up the tent.”

Fred presses a kiss to the top of her head before he steps back and takes her hand, leading her out into the garden to join the preparations.

\- x -

The wedding is beautiful. Quite understandably, Hermione has never seen one like it. Fleur is glowing the whole time, possibly very literally, and Bill looks happier than ever. He barely has eyes for anyone but his new wife, and no one seems to blame him. 

Hermione doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing.

Chairs and tables fly about the tent, rearranging themselves from ceremony to reception and again to clear a space for the dancefloor. Mr and Mrs Weasley have prepared everything so wonderfully that every new addition is seamless and magical and takes her right back to being eleven and arriving at Hogwarts for the very first time. 

Harry and Ron are joking to each other in a corner when she finds them and drags them out to dance, ignoring the whining and complaints and laughing when they trip over each others’ feet. They’re eventually joined by Fred, George and Ginny, who weren’t so lucky in escaping the clutches of their extended family and are looking quite worse for wear. George immediately takes Harry off to sit somewhere on the sidelines, but before Hermione can even open her mouth to protest Fred is slipping his hand into hers and pulling her farther into the whirl of people.

“You’re looking absolutely stunning, darling,” he tells her as he’s twirling her under his arm. She laughs and enjoys the way her dress flares around her legs, and doesn’t tread on his toes when he misses a step.

“You’re quite dashing yourself, this evening,” she says, and he gasps, horrified. 

“What do you mean, _this evening?_ I’ll have you know that I’m _always_ this pretty.”

Dancing next to them, Fleur Delacour-Weasley laughs.

Ron is regaling Luna and Ginny with stories, off to the side. Harry and George are leaning against each other’s shoulders in the background, pointing and jeering at the dancers good-naturedly. Hermione and Fred are dancing together for the first time—and not the last—with stars in their eyes and smiles abundant. Every one of them stands on the edge of a precipice none wants to face, and for this one, kind moment, they don’t have to. They have this moment, each of them, like it’s the very least the world owes them. This moment to hold as their own. 

This moment where, finally, everyone is happy.


	2. Chapter 2

“Guess who?”

Large hands hover over her eyes and obscure the pages of notes she’s reading. She huffs a little laugh and lifts her head.

“Hmm… Fred,” she decides.

George laughs and steps around the arm of the sofa, and she takes the drink he offers her.

“Stranger danger, Granger,” he says. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to know not to take drinks from strange men.”

Hermione raises one eyebrow as she takes a sip. “After bringing me here, you’ve not got very far to run if you do slip me something.”

George grins. “Well, as long as you don’t try snogging me, I think we’ll be fine.”

“I think we shall,” she agrees. 

The hot chocolate is warm and just ever so slightly sharp with hints of unknown spices. She sinks farther into the couch and curls her knees in, content in enjoying the feel of steam rolling over her lips and the tip of her nose.

“What are you doing with these then, hm?” George asks, perching himself on the sofa arm and peering down at the parchments.

“When I said I was impressed by these, I really did mean it,” Hermione tells him, gently shuffling the papers. “I asked if I could have a look at your calculations and testing.”

“The amortentia ones, huh,” he murmurs. “I never took you to have any interest in love potions.”

She smiles. “I’m sure there are lots of things you wouldn’t take me for, but I bet none of those are witch-with-an-insatiable-hunger-for-knowledge.”

George tips precariously on the sofa arm as he laughs. “Right you are, my love,” he says, “right you are. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, I’m okay.” She gestures for the notes. “These are surprisingly well informed; I actually understand what you’re doing most of the time.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he chuckles.

Hermione chews on the inside of her lip for a moment. They can hear mumbles of activity from downstairs, the fizzing and shrieking of gadgets flying about the shop and the laughter and wonder of the remaining patrons. She’s sure if she listened carefully she could pick Fred and Harry’s voices out of the spin, even if Harry hasn’t dared step onto the floor since August.

“Your mother’s invited me and my parents for Christmas,” she says eventually.

“I know,” George replies. “Will you be coming?”

She looks up. “Is it all right if we do?”

His eyebrows twitch in a funny way, as if he thinks she’s said something strange.

“Of course it’s all right,” he says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” she mumbles. “It’s… You know. The first Christmas since everything. I don’t want to take up your family’s time.”

“Hermione,” he says softly, “you are never unwelcome in our house.”

“Well, I know your mother—”

“No, no, hear me out:  _ you _ are family too, you know that? You’re family. You were the one that stuck it out with Harry and Ron all year pulling ridiculous stunts and defeating the darkest wizards out there. You’re the one here, right now, with us. You’ve been practically family since you first saved Ron from that chess board eight years ago, and none of us will ever turn you away, okay?” He smiles. “Also, Fred would probably have our heads if we tried.”

She laughs. “Thank you, George. I’ll try to make sure he doesn’t decapitate you any time in the future. Now go on, go find Harry. I know you’re dying to.”

He salutes her playfully before getting up and wandering over towards the shop entrance. 

“I’ll send him up on my way down,” he calls over his shoulder, and the door clicks gently behind him.

Hermione sighs and takes another long drink from her mug. 

She’s back with her nose in their notes before long, working her way through the multitude of numbers and angles and spellwork. She doesn’t hear the door to the flat open and close a second time, nor does she notice the person who stands in the hallway for several minutes, content just to watch her reading by the fire.

She does notice when he sits beside her on the sofa, when the cushions dip and tip her towards the middle, into his side.

“Hello,” she says warmly, looking up and meeting his gorgeous smile. “Good afternoon?”

“Very,” Fred tells her. “We’ve probably hit the pre-Christmas peak.”

“That’s brilliant,” she says. “Are the new lines doing well?”

He waves his hands vaguely. “Fantastically, of course. But what’s this I’m hearing about being unwelcome at Christmas?”

Hermione smiles a little. “I only asked if it was okay to take up your mother’s invitation, Fred. I’m not doubting your kindness and hospitality, I promise.”

“I never thought you were, darling. I’m just wondering why you thought you’d ever need to ask.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” she sighs. “The war’s finally over and everyone’s back together—I thought I’d at least make sure I wasn’t going to be in the way of your spending time together.”

“Never!” Fred gasps. “What a preposterous suggestion!”

Hermione laughs and drops her head against his shoulder.

“But really, Hermione,” he says more seriously, “I don’t think any of us would consider Christmas complete without you and Harry. You’re Weasleys now, as per all of your heroic, self-sacrificing involvement with one or more of our people.”

“That’s what George said,” she murmurs. “I really only asked in case he thought I was trying to steal you away.”

Fred laughs and slides his arm around her side. “Who, George? The one who’s been stealing Harry from you and Ron since fifth year?”

She giggles. “That one, yes.”

“I think he’s fine with it. He likes you,  _ obviously, _ and he’s never had a problem before.”

Fred gently tugs the parchment and mug from her hands, leaving them safely on the coffee table before he pulls her onto his lap.

“My family love you,” he says. “Mum just wants to look after you and meet your family. I’m not sure about Dad, though—I think he might just want an excuse to talk to them about muggle things.”

Hermione laughs against his neck. She rights herself so that her knees slide against the sofa and she’s sat astride his thighs, hands resting at the curves of his neck and thumbs stroking slowly back and forth. His hands find the small of her back and he looks up at her, grinning like she’s the only thing in the building worth seeing.

“I love you,” she says.

His eyebrows make an aborted movement, belying his surprise in an amusing betrayal.

“Are you sure?” he asks. His fingers trail their way from her back to her cheek. “I’ve been told I’m quite a handful.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I was born with two hands,” she replies smugly.

“God, I love you,” he confesses on a breath, and pulls her into a sugary, searing kiss.

Hermione threads her fingers into the hair at the base of Fred’s neck and leans closer, lying against his chest even as she sits on his knees. Fred’s hand on her back moves down to her hip, his thumb finding the crease of her thigh and his fingers roving over her leg. She lets out a small noise as his tongue brushes past hers, and he smiles.

“Please do remember to respect the sanctity of our shared spaces!” George chimes, completely unaffected as he wanders past them to the kitchen. Hermione springs upright in surprise, already feeling the heat rising to her cheeks as Fred’s hand slips out from under her jumper.

_ “You’re _ one to talk!” Fred says loudly. “I’ve seen more of Harry than I’ve ever wanted thanks to you!”

“Sorry about that,” comes Harry’s sheepish voice. He pops his head out of the workshop to grin at them. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Hermione snorts and falls back against Fred’s shoulder, knees curling back together over his lap. He chuckles and wraps her up in his arms again, throwing a rude hand gesture George’s way when he returns with four mugs of tea.

“Shop’s all closed,” George says, lowering himself like an old man into his armchair. “Harry has some brilliant cleaning spells up his sleeve; he didn’t get them from you, did he?”

“Snape,” Hermione says, warming her fingers on her fresh mug. “That bloody book of his was full of them.”

“They’re useful,” Harry grumbles. “It’s not like they’re dangerous.”

“No,” she sighs, “they’re not. At least you actually clean up after yourself now.”

“Honestly, he’s mostly cleaning up after us,” Fred says. “We seem to be cursed with a never-ending string of accidents.”

“I’m fairly sure the number of experiments you conduct is directly proportional to the number of accidents you have,” Hermione tells him. “Of course, if you cleaned up after yourselves, Harry wouldn’t have to.”

“But then what would I have to do all day?” Harry grins.

“Sit around looking pretty?” George suggests.

“Study?” Hermione suggests, pointedly this time. Harry gives her the same look he has since third year—the,  _ do you really believe I’d do that _ look.

“So, what’s for dinner tonight?” George asks, looking eagerly to his boyfriend.

“Chilli,” Harry says. “Should be good, it’s been on the job since this morning. I used three times as much chilli powder as my aunt does, so it should be a nice change.”

“So either it’s going to have  _ some _ taste, or it’s going to burn our mouths out and we won’t be able to taste it anyway,” Fred says.

Harry smiles. “Precisely.”

Hermione buries herself into Fred’s side, head tucked against his shoulder and toes curled under his knee. He runs his hand from her shoulder to her elbow and back slowly, over and over as he bickers with George and bounces ideas off each of them.

At that moment, Hermione knows there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred lives, my dears, and they get their happily ever after :')  
> I wasn't originally going to write any more for this tiny story, but I love them so much and thought a nice little moment post-war would help me wrap up nicely.  
> Thank you for all your kind comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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